


Moving Day

by Jezunya



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Schmoopy Thorin, Thorin POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 22:36:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezunya/pseuds/Jezunya
Summary: The hobbit finally stops, looking Thorin dead in the eye again.“Or do you want me out of the Mountain entirely?” he demands, his voice low and perfectly steady, glaring across at Thorin with a mixture of hurt and anger in his hazel eyes.





	Moving Day

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure something like this has been done many times before, but this conversation appeared in my head nearly fully-formed as I was waking up the other day, so here it is <3

“Master Baggins, ah— Bilbo,” Thorin corrects himself, considering the question he hopes to ask. The hobbit has often teased him for his apparent habit of falling back on formality whenever he feels nervous or vulnerable, a way of keeping people at arm’s length, or so Bilbo calls it. It is a tendency that has served him well enough in matters of state: reminding petitioners of the court and his various advisors and guild leaders that none of them particularly have his ear, that no preference will be given based on supposed friendship or personal connection, that the merits of their argument are the only things that can sway their cold, distant ruler.

Matters of the heart are something else entirely, of course.

Bilbo arches a brow even as he smiles and steps back from his open doorway to welcome Thorin into his quarters, apparently having caught Thorin’s slip and no doubt reading his mood with ease. “I assume something other than afternoon tea brings you to my humble abode today,” Bilbo says, closing the door behind Thorin and then leading the way over to the plush armchairs of his receiving room and the tea spread awaiting them: a platter of crisp, buttery biscuits and two heavy ceramic mugs, showing he had indeed expected Thorin’s arrival.

“Something in addition to tea,” Thorin murmurs as he lowers himself into one chair, “not instead of.” This earns him another smile as Bilbo begins filling the mugs before passing one across to Thorin, along with the heavy cream Thorin favors in his.

They have taken tea together nearly every day, since even before Thorin was allowed out of bed while his wounds from the battle slowly knit themselves closed once more. Bilbo always brought with him a steaming pot and mugs, along with a book or two and lively conversation about the rest of the Company or the comings and goings of the Mountain’s newest arrivals. Tea together had become their ritual, and, more often than not, at least one meal each day; in truth, were it not for Bilbo’s company, Thorin likely would have forgotten to eat at all much of the time since he officially took the throne, as the duties of the crown have continued to mount with the needs of their ever-growing kingdom.

And through it all, over the past months, as they weathered their first winter in Erebor, and then their first spring, first summer, and now as the year turns towards autumn once more, all the while Bilbo has been a steady rock by Thorin’s side, a faithful friend and thoughtful advisor, the one person whose companionship Thorin desires above all others. It has been thus for far longer than they’ve been settled in the Mountain, of course, if Thorin is truly honest with himself – quite possibly since the very beginning, though he was certainly loath to admit his attraction those first few months of their trek.

“Well, out with it, then,” Bilbo says, pulling Thorin from his thoughts. He grins across at Thorin, helping himself to the first of many biscuits and wiggling down into his own chair to make himself more comfortable.

Thorin purses his lips, looking down into his tea and taking a long sip. It’s a stalling tactic, and they both know it. “You are,” he says after a moment, forcing himself to begin, and then finds himself flailing for words, finally going on uncertainly, “comfortable here?”

Bilbo blinks across at him, his brows drawn up and together. Clearly not what he had been expecting. “Er… Yes. Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“Durin’s Day approaches once more,” Thorin goes on, and he knows he is hedging around the true issue, knows it is nothing more than cowardly avoidance of what he most wishes to ask, but, as much as subtlety has never been a particular talent of his, he finds he cannot yet address this head-on. “It will soon be a year since we retook the Mountain, and half a year again since we first left the Shire.”

“Yes…?” Bilbo agrees, really frowning at Thorin in confusion now. “I assume there will be quite the feast planned for the upcoming anniversary,” he says then, smiling again, and Thorin cannot help but to respond in kind, if a little subdued in comparison. Their resident hobbit has seen a whole swath of dwarven celebrations over the past year, piteously small next to Thorin’s memories of Erebor’s festivals in his youth, but joyous and hearty nonetheless. Bilbo has bemoaned the lack of green vegetables for his plate, but, at the same time, greatly enjoyed the vast quantities of ale and other liquors that flow at such feasts. He is quite a sight at such times: his cheeks and nose flushing delicately red under the usual brown tones of his skin, his eyes opening extra wide and words falling from his mouth almost more quickly than Thorin can keep up. The hobbit grows drunk faster than any of the rest of them, but also sobers faster – and with less evidence of hangover, it seems – his small body burning through alcohol just as it seems to burn through his food, like an especially hot forge needing constant fuel to maintain its temperature.

Fuel they have been able to easily supply as the kingdom has regained its footing, Thorin is proud – and relieved – to see, after learning that the austere conditions of their quest had left Bilbo starving and dangerously thin by hobbit standards. He has filled out again over the past year, regaining the plump softness Thorin had observed about him that first evening in Bag End – though he seems to have fully left behind the accompanying meekness and hesitancy, no longer the anxious little creature who was unable even to shoo unwanted strangers from his own home. No, he speaks and acts now with purpose and determination, sure in his own will and in his ability to overcome with wit and logic and cunning any who would stand against him.

It is a skill Thorin greatly admires and, at the moment, also greatly envies.

“There will be a grand feast,” Thorin says, returning to Bilbo’s question, “as well as a day of mourning and remembrance for those who fell in the battle. I… would hope that you would join me, and my sister and nephews.” He pauses, looking down at his hands, at the warm mug of tea clasped between them, and then adds, softer, “For this and for many such celebrations to come.”

“Of course I will,” Bilbo says, and he’s smiling quizzically at Thorin when he glances up once more. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world! And I hope you know I intend to help with the feast’s planning and organization in any way I can. Really, Thorin, as if you even need to ask!”

“It’s only…” Thorin glances at him and then past Bilbo, to the writing desk nestled under the clear crystal window on the far wall, its facets catching the natural light amongst themselves before allowing it to spill over the large – and growing – collection of correspondence piled there. That the ravens are both able and willing to cross the Misty Mountains to carry word back to the Shire seems to have brought about a shift in Bilbo’s mood the last several months, one last trace of inscrutable anxiety seeming to lift off his slight shoulders each time the birds bring him another missive. Thorin has not wanted to pry into the contents of the many letters Bilbo has sent and received, but it is obvious the hobbit misses his home, his friends and family there, the land itself. It is this that has precipitated Thorin’s visit today, after mulling over the issue for months and months and finally forcing himself into action before it is too late.

“Only?” Bilbo prompts, and Thorin sighs, setting his teacup back on the table to rub his hands over his face.

“I know I have no right to ask you this,” he says, “that it is selfish and cruel to even think it.”

“What?” Bilbo asks, frowning in confusion once more.

“After all you have done for me and my people,” Thorin says, hanging his head, but now that he has begun, the words, at last, seem to pour forth on their own, “restoring my kingdom and crown, saving my life and the lives of my kin time and again, giving us a _home_ again after all others turned their backs on us... So how can I possibly ask you to give up your home?”

Bilbo is utterly silent, and after a moment Thorin goes on, still staring down at his boots as he adds, his voice quiet, “And yet I find I must ask that, that and so much more, before any more time passes.” Before he loses his nerve, he thinks but does not say. Before it is too late, and he loses Bilbo forever.

It is several long seconds before he is able to raise his eyes once more. Thorin can feel his face burning with shame, with the miserable surety that he will be rebuffed, that no matter how he lays his heart bare, it is not, could not ever be, something that such a bright, clever, kind creature as Bilbo Baggins would desire. And he is not the only one made miserable by broaching this topic, he sees, as Bilbo looks rather stricken when Thorin finally meets his gaze again.

“You want me to…?” Bilbo starts, before breaking off, blinking rapidly. His eyes dart around the room as he sets his tea aside, his thoughts clearly buzzing away, and then he glances at Thorin again, speaking quickly. “Now… Now, I know what a flare for dramatics you can have sometimes, so… so what exactly are we talking about here, hm? You want me out of these rooms?”

Thorin frowns. “What—?”

“They are very nice rooms, after all, I could understand if perhaps you’d want to use them for a visiting ambassador or another dwarven king perhaps or…”

“Bilbo—”

“O-or is it more that I ought to move out of your— out of the Royal Family’s wing? That would make sense, of course, I’m not, you know, strictly speaking— Everyone else in the Company chose to live closer to their crafts and places of employment, so I suppose I could take an apartment nearer the library, it’s not technically my ‘craft’ in the dwarven sense but it’s near enough, so—”

“ _Bilbo_ ,” Thorin tries again, reaching across the space between their chairs to catch hold of one of his hands, flailing as he talked, and the hobbit finally stops, looking Thorin dead in the eye again.

“Or do you want me out of the Mountain entirely?” he demands, his voice low and perfectly steady, glaring across at Thorin with a mixture of hurt and anger in his hazel eyes.

“I want you to stay!” Thorin blurts out, wondering how, after saying he wanted to determine exactly what they were talking about, how things could have gotten so wildly, incomprehensibly turned around.

“Then why did you say—” Bilbo starts heatedly, but then freezes, staring at Thorin. “Bag End,” he breathes after a moment. “You meant Bag End. You meant the Shire.”

Thorin hangs his head once more, looking down at their joined hands, at how tiny Bilbo’s is pressed between Thorin’s larger ones. Like one of those flowers he has seen pressed between the pages of Bilbo’s books. “I know I have no right to ask such a thing of you,” he begins, repeating his earlier statement, “but—”

Bilbo jerks his hand away.

It is not actually a physical pain, but, distantly, Thorin thinks he finally truly understands the term ‘heartbreak.’ He can imagine it well: a sudden fissure tearing through what had previously seemed firm, living stone, a walkway crumbling out from under his feet, sending him plummeting down into the endless abyss, possibilities sundered, cut away, crushed—

The pile of letters from Bilbo’s desk slaps onto the floor in front of him, directly in Thorin’s line of sight, spilling over each other across his boots and the carpet beneath, envelopes torn at one end to reveal their neatly folded pages and darkly inked script within. Thorin looks up to find Bilbo standing over him, looking gloriously furious, his golden curls flaming around his face like the halo of the sun, and Thorin is reminded once again that this little creature faced down orcs, men, elves, and a dragon, and defeated them all.

“I have spent the last _seven months_ haranguing the mayor of Hobbiton, and the mayor in Michel Delving, _and_ my grandfather the Thain, until they finally believed I am who I say am and all agreed that I shall retain ownership of Bag End and can name whomever I like as my heir, _even though I no longer live there!_ ”

“Then,” Thorin says, staring up at him in wonder, “you do intend to stay?”

“ _Yes_ , you ridiculous dwarf, that is what I’m try— mmph!”

Before he knows what he’s doing, Thorin is on his feet, and Bilbo is in his arms, and he is _kissing Bilbo Baggins._

He pulls back with a gasp. “Bilbo— Forgive me, I acted without thinking, I—”

“Don’t you dare,” is all Bilbo says in response, glaring up at Thorin as he stands on his toes and yanks down on the braids on either side of Thorin’s face, pulling them back together for another kiss.

Bilbo’s lips are soft and warm as they move against his, his body pressing eagerly against Thorin, arms rising to wrap around Thorin’s neck and hold him close as his feet fumble, eventually finding their way up on top of the steel toes of Thorin’s boots, giving him just those few extra inches of height. Thorin is panting slightly when they finally part once more, and Bilbo seems to be in a similar state. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Bilbo murmurs, his eyes still closed as he rests his cheek against Thorin’s collarbone, “so don’t you dare apologize for that.”

Thorin leans his forehead against the mass of golden curls at the crown of Bilbo’s head, breathing in deeply, feeling giddy and more than a little like he must be dreaming. “You will stay, then?” he asks.

“Yes,” Bilbo replies, sounding rather exasperated as he pulls back to look up at Thorin again. “I had thought this issue was quite well settled, but then you come in here asking me to _give up my home!_ ”

Thorin looks away, sheepish, but he cannot stop smiling, not while Bilbo is here, in his arms. “I had thought… You always spoke of missing your home in the Shire, all through our quest…”

“Not _all through_ ,” Bilbo grouses, even as he wraps his arms round Thorin’s waist and nuzzles his cheek into Thorin’s chest once more. “I do miss quite a few of my books, and of course I’d like to send for, or perhaps at some point go and fetch, some personal things like my parents’ portraits, my mother’s fine china, that sort of thing…”

Thorin hums, leaning down to press a kiss to Bilbo’s temple.

“And I’ll have you know I’ve grown quite fond of these rooms here,” Bilbo adds, glancing around his cozy little sitting room, filled with books and furniture and trinkets crafted by or at least gifted to him by his friends in the Company, and then looking back up at Thorin with a smile. “To answer your initial question: I am very comfortable right where I am.”

Thorin huffs a short laugh. “I am glad to hear it,” he says, and then, the words coming to him as if directly from the Maker himself, “though would you be entirely against the prospect of moving somewhere else?”

Bilbo pulls back a little, frowning up at him again. “What…? I thought you didn’t—”

“Into the King’s Quarters, perhaps?” Thorin finishes, smiling nervously down at him. “With me,” he adds a moment later, just to be entirely clear.

Bilbo stares up at him, his look of shock and disbelief beginning at last to give way to a slow-spreading smile. “Oh,” he says, shaking his head as he leans up for another kiss, “you really are ridiculous.”

Thorin laughs and kisses him back and hopes – _really_ hopes, for the very first time – that that means _yes_.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](http://jezunya.tumblr.com/)


End file.
